Considerations about Tables from Sherlock Holmes
by Tzee
Summary: Sherlock decided he didn't very much like tables anymore,whichever devolved Neanderthals had brought this concept about would have left everyone better off if they were still splashing about in primordial soup. Companion to Chair-thoughts of John Watson


Rating: M for Sexual intercourse

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson

Warnings: Gratuitous sex. Tables at odd angles.

Nothing belongs to me; characters and universe belong to the BBC production of Sherlock. This is written purely for enjoyment, no infringements on copyright are intended and no profit is being made from this story.

Companion piece to: _Chair-thoughts of John Watson._ Can be read as a stand alone.

A/N: I was overwhelmed by the response to Chair-thoughts, and I'm drafting a meagre plot to continue with a sequel. In the meantime please enjoy a similarly smutty fic from Sherlock's perspective, a companion piece, if you will. Hope you enjoy, Please review!

Careful Considerations of Sherlock Holmes on the commendable qualities of Tables

Sherlock had decided that he didn't very much like tables anymore, and whichever devolved family of Neanderthals had brought this wonderful concept about would have left everyone better off if they were still splashing about in primordial soup.

This of course came after a period of time when Sherlock thought that tables were a Darwinian gift to man-kind, and that the family of Neanderthals that had brought this wonderful concept about could possibly have been so intelligent as to reach almost-sherlockian proportions. Sort of. Maybe. If you squinted.

John had taken it upon himself to eat some yoghurt; he had gone to the fridge, sighed at the phials of tuberculosis-sufferer's mucus, and then cracked the small punnett until it yielded a chocolate-and-banana yogurt cup (with live AB cultures!). Sherlock rolled his eyes from where he leant against the counter, elegantly quaffing his coffee.

John would normally have drawn up a chair at the kitchen table; which, as there was an unusual respite from any serious cases, was mercifully devoid of laboratory equipment. However, at this precise moment all the chairs were stacked in the sitting room- "It's a _fort_, Sherlock. You used the kitchen chairs to build a _fort_ in the living room." - for an experiment in tessellation.

Given the lack of chairs and John's mulish adherence to things like eating breakfast, John had no choice but to hoist himself up and shimmy about until he was sitting on the table- edge.

Sherlock never was one to use superlatives. However, there were certain moments, when he was presented with certain visuals of John, freshly scrubbed and shaved and glowing in a way that it displayed an angle rather favourable to water molecules, or when John inhaled a breath of indignation that puffed out his chest and demonstrated the qualities of a black-and-leather jacket- he was forced to consider such exhibitions of the merits of natural phenomena such as cotton and H2O as...nice.

And so it was, when John decided to throw tradition to the wind and use the table as a chair, and swing his legs just a little, and unnecessarily flick his tongue over the cusp of the metal teaspoon so as not to miss any yoghurt, and to quirk his lips and hum with simple enjoyment- well Sherlock was forced to admit that shown in that light the plain table really was quite...nice.

He also broke the legs of both chairs, entirely accidentally, in the course of the aforementioned experiment.

John simply took the new development in his stride, and began eating not only yoghurt from atop the table, but whole plates of breakfast, drinking innumerable cups of tea and sometimes just perching himself there to mull something over in his mind.

During this week Sherlock made use of his daring superlative_ repetitively_, because this was the week when Sherlock discovered that he had an inexorable penchant for tables.

John was yet again sitting on the kitchen table, eating another bizarre-flavoured yoghurt, and talking to Sherlock about his idea to reupholster the red armchair in suede or brushed velvet, when he dropped his spoon with a clatter. Without thinking, (He purposely avoided it), Sherlock knelt down to pick up the shiny utensil. He looked up, handing it back to John, and was struck with the thought that John was in the perfect position to receive fellatio. From none other than Sherlock himself.

Sherlock would later define this as the instant his affection for tables turned to naked abhorrence. In that one instance where he thought to be selfless and helpful, and pick up that damned spoon, it was revealed to him something that he absolutely could not face; that he had simply _not caught on fast enough_ to the fact that he was lusting after the good doctor..._ with superlatives_.

And thus the torture began. He would have happily continued to ogle the strapping Captain on the edge of the table, happily unawares, if it were not for the simultaneous feeling of shame that washed over him when; on spying the table, he was reminded of how, dare he say it, _slow_ his realization had been.

It was well into the witching hour-Sherlock seated in the living room and angled so that he could glare over his steepled fingers at the offending piece of furniture-when he finally figured out how to solve the conundrum.

He would take matters into his own hands; so to speak.

Quite unsure about how to begin, Sherlock closed his eyes and dove backwards, into the recesses of his mind-palace. Tugging out sufficient data, deciding on a miniature narrative and unbuttoning a few buttons of his shirt- as was supposedly customary- Sherlock began to evenly fondle himself through his trousers.

In his mind's eye, an imaginary Dr John Watson ambled into the kitchen, coarse jeans outlining the undulation of strong muscles, and cabled beige jumper snug over a non-descript shirt. The 'fridge yawned open and John selected some of that squishy cheese in the little foil triangles, the ones Sherlock knew John had bought with him in mind – he had eaten one _once_ and _not_ because it had a laughing red cow on the front.

John turned with his treat, and hopped back onto the table, unfurling the wrapper and taking a nibble.

Sherlock watched this for a little while; watched satisfied grins flash across the doctor's face, watched the bobbing of his Adam's apple as he swallowed, watched the flutter of delight as flashes of his tongue skimmed and licked and slicked the lucky food, until Sherlock could not take it anymore, and bounded across the room in record time, snatching the lascivious thing from John's mouth and replacing it with his lips. And _oh_ there was so much data...imaginary John did not pull away in shock and dismay, as the real John would, but instead moaned, and pushed that wicked tongue deep into Sherlock's mouth, sharing the creamy sweetness of the cheese, sucking on his lips, letting his own lips be sucked, smoothing over Sherlock's own tongue. Sherlock took it all in, the sugar in the cheese, the taste of tannin-stains from too much tea, the wetness, the firm, plying strokes -everything.

When hands grasping at the fluff- ball jumper- trying to reach the hazy figure beneath it- were no longer enough, Sherlock trailed an open mouth down his doctor's neck. He sucked on the Adam's apple vibrating with a cry of pleasure, at the juncture between neck and shoulder, at the pulse point, scraping just a hint of teeth over the cords of straining tendon, until back in the real-life sitting room his hand had wrenched open his fly and he was fisting and thumbing over his astonishingly hard cock. A tentative hand had snuck into his shirt, and he was rolling the nubs of his nipples taut.

Dream Sherlock's hands were getting snarled with John's, fighting to unbuckle John's jeans . He could feel the straining crest of cock through the starchy layer, and he needed, _needed_ to know, right now, what a hard Captain Watson looked like.

His desperation didn't last long. Within seconds those excessive garments had been ripped clean off, and tossed over a shoulder.

Before him, spread like the only food he'd ever want to eat, was the glory of a half naked John, hands braced behind, chest breathless, arousal written all over his body in a catalogue of red and swollen and slippery-wet. And Sherlock would be dumber than a mute fish if he wasn't going to clutch that tousled, disarrayed offering against his body, and kiss and kiss and _keep on kissing._

Eventually, though, he wanted to kiss John...elsewhere. He dropped to the floor between John's knees.

With a hefty effort Sherlock held off on kissing John's cock. The detective brought his lips down, instead, on the roughened tops of his kneecaps. Then he slid his lips, silkily, slowly, adoringly up the insides of John's thighs, pausing here and there to mouth wetly at the pliable skin; half-kissing, half-sucking.

John was canting with hips forward, but Sherlock had secured him with bony strength. He ghosted hot breath closer and closer to the throbbing groin, skipping over balls and cock to kiss along the hips and strong v-lines.

In the chair, his own muffled huffing loud in the early silence, Sherlock cupped his balls, not daring to pull on his cock for the moment, for risk of coming before the 'climax' of his little fantasy.

And then he stopped teasing; his smirk filling with needy, throbbing, John. The taste of pre-come, tart and dry was suddenly smeared inside his mouth. He could feel John's shuddering heartbeat heavy in his mouth.

His fantasy skipped ahead of him, calling through his mind an unplanned detail; a low, raggedy call of want.

'Sherlock...'

John's voice, _his name_ in his mouth.

Sherlock pressed forwards, taking the whole of John's cock into his mouth, tongue flat along the pulsating bottom vein. Gag reflex ignored, he continued to swallow, slurping as he pulled back and pressing the tip of his tongue into the underside as he moved forwards again. Every round sent another crest of pleasure through him, bringing his orgasm ever closer.

He pulled his lips right back, a hand coming up to embrace the exposed skin, and sucked on the very tip, licking short light jabs around the head and into the leaking slit.

He looked up; both eyebrows arched to see from the low angle, and was trapped in the hooded tempest of blue.

Dream-John's left hand came off the tabletop, reaching for Sherlock. Instead of grasping for Sherlock's hair to guide his ministrations, it came to rest tenderly on the side of his head, a thumb stroking across his temple and a look that Sherlock didn't have the courage to recognise in his eyes.

He gave another lusty swallow, and then John was coming, and he was coming too, jerking violently into his hand before collapsing against the chair. He lay there for a long moment, before the sticky coolness in his hand became too annoying to ignore.

AS he passed the kitchen table, he had the briefest feeling of triumph, all chagrin at seeing it had been utterly eclipsed with associations of pleasure. Experiment; successful.

The next morning John opened the fridge, searching for breakfast

"Oh," said John surprised but happy, "You ate all the Laughing Cow."

He turned to look at Sherlock, who just lifted the outstretched leaves of the newspaper higher.

"I'll get some more, shall I?" his voice full of affectionate indulgence.

Sherlock could only mumble, a very dubious mist drifting across his eyes. The kitchen chairs at 221b remained out-of-action for the rest of the month.

A/N: Hope you liked it! Please tell me what you think! How did it compare with the other one? Please review!

Laughing Cow: I really hope you guys have this cheese wherever you are, it is heaven!

PS: Don't you just love the fact that John is a Captain? Lols random...


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